


Congrats on the Sex!

by Draikinator



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Rodimus is an asshole, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, fragbuddies, im probably going to hell?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-28
Updated: 2015-04-28
Packaged: 2018-03-26 05:35:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3839041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Draikinator/pseuds/Draikinator
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I dont know just let me die what the ufjc am i doing</p>
            </blockquote>





	Congrats on the Sex!

Drift rolled his hips lazily, grinding downward. Rodimus grunted pleasantly, and ran his servos up the smooth headlights of Drift’s thighs.

“You really should- ah- should just talk to him, y-you know,” Rodimus said, twitching his own hips upward. Drift bit his lip and and shrugged, leaning back and adjusting the way his knees were digging into the metal berth uncomfortably.

“But, uh, what if- what if he says no? I don’t want him to avoid me or- or anything,” Drift asked, letting his weight drop and hilting himself on Rodimus’ spike. Rodimus rolled his eyes and groaned with a long exhale before meeting Drift’s optics with a smirk.

“Aw, come on, Drift, how could he say no to a pretty face like yours?”

Drift’s faceplate flushed fuschia and one arm snaked upward to scratch bashfully at the back of his helm, “I don’t know…”

Rodimus snorted and scooted his pedes back up under him, flipping Drift up and onto his back with a surprised yelp. Rodimus laughed at the noise and Drift’s pink faceplate, grabbing his legs under the knees and hefting them over his shoulders, “Do you trust me?”

Drift blinked a the sincerity in his voice and his optics and furrowed his optic ridges together with a pause, “…Yes.”

Rodimus’ face split in a lopsided grin and a cocked optic ridge, “Good. Now lemme finish plowing you and we’ll score you that hot date.”

Drift started to say something, but was stopped when Rodimus slammed his hips forward mercilessly, and anything he’d been thinking washed away like water as he cried out staticcy moans and yelps, hanging on for dear life.

* * *

 

Drift was logging in duplicate coordinates on the main server, pedes crossed under him in the chair, rolling an energon stick against his glossae lazily when his comm beeped a hail from Rodimus. He activated it, leaning back away from the keypad on the dim bridge, and really hoped Rodimus wasn’t about to chastise him for being up so late into his off shift again.

“Drift,” Rodimus’ voice came in, unusually serious.

“What’s up?” Asked Drift, hesitant.

“Report to medbay. Your annual is overdue.”

“Wh- no it’s not,” Drift said, turning away from the screen.

“Yes,” said Rodimus, slowly, “It is. Report to medbay. That’s an order.”

The line clicked off, and Drift narrowed his eyes suspiciously before standing and logging off of the terminal.

The door to the medbay was open when he got there, and Drift’s suspicions were running higher than he was comfortable admitting, but he rapped on the doorframe with two knuckles anyway.

“Uh… Yearly?” He said cautiously, dubiously, glancing into the room.

Ratchet grunted, looking at a datapad, and Drift toed inside, trying and failing not to look cowed. He scooted back onto a medical table when Ratchet gestured distractedly at it, kneading his fists against his knees thoughtfully. Ratchet folded his arms against his chest and glared at him until Drift finally blurted out, “What?!”

“I,” said Ratchet tersely, “Am no longer your doctor.”

“Wha-?” Drift said, “Uh. Why?”

Ratchet coughed and held up the datapad he’s been holsing, flipping it around and tapping play. Drift’s face lit up as pink as it was on screen, the video playback of him panting and moaning under obviously Rodimus this morning playing quietly under Rodimus’ self-assured voice over, “Hey, Doc! All of this AND MORE can be yours for the low low price of dinner with my fave third-in-command. Also First Aid is now his acting doctor, that’s an order, so you have no excuses. Captain out!”

The video clicked off.

Drift had buried his faceplates in his servos and had already sent Rodimus going on fifty explicit messages threatening to pitch him out the airlock interspersed with “I’m never saying yes to ‘do you trust me’ again I swear Rodimus” when Ratchet laughed, which was a weird enough sound in and of itself that Drift felt himself peeking out between his fingers.

“You know, there’s easier ways to ask someone to dinner than getting your fragbuddy to make a commercial,” Ratchet was smirking, leaning back against the counter. Drift gaped at him, flabberghasted.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” he said, incredulous, and Ratchet shrugged. Drift backpeddled, jerking his spinal strut straight and trying to clear the flush from his faceplates, “I, uh, I mean, uh- hey, I, you know, I still need that exam, huh?” He stammered, trying to switch gears, to Ratchet’s bemusement.

“Door’s locked,” Ratchet said simply.


End file.
